


My pride, my son

by 07JoeTheBastardo



Series: let freedom ring [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Dream Smp, Fluff at the beginning before it all goes to shit, Heavy Angst, I am so late, Minecraft, No Happy Ending Fest, Obligatory Hamilton Song, Respawn AU, Revolution, Sad Wilbur Soot, Slight canon change, Song: Dear Theodosia, canon took a sharp left and was gone, l'manberg, like your father, no editing, word dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07JoeTheBastardo/pseuds/07JoeTheBastardo
Summary: He has always been prideful, too prideful he would say. He would always yield to his pride, and towards his weakness that he held close.He placed a fond smile on his face, yes. Pride was always his weakness.au Wilbur gets captured. Things don't end well.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: let freedom ring [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953463
Comments: 18
Kudos: 155





	My pride, my son

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759638) by [DormantAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DormantAshes/pseuds/DormantAshes). 



> you want to know my greatest fear? that the people mentioned here would actually take time out of their day to read this, and god that keeps me up at night. literally, it's like 2 am rn

_When you came into the world, you cried and it broke my heart_

His gaze swept across the valley, spotting the 'fight' between the zombie child and his son over where to plant the new redwood saplings. He smiles behind his cough. Little shits were making a ruckus again. It's a welcomed noise, it's not the loud explosives or crackles of burning wood.

Wilbur walked away from the petty fight, nothing serious or annoying enough to justify an intervention. He stands on the small hill overlooking the small valley. It wasn't much— actually, it looks like actual shit. Too much dirt here, not enough supplies there, and too much unknown in their path. 

But.

His chest felt weird, heavy, and light and his eyes stung with an unknown feeling whenever he gazes at the holes in the mud or the sunset on the walls. An impossible feat did through sheer luck and strong will.

He didn't even know how they pulled it off.

_I'm dedicating every day to you_   
_Domestic life was never quite my style_

The effervescent young people, so very vivacious and enthusiastic, shines through the kid's teeth and his skin as he soaks everything in.

The absurdly lenient tension in the air is a travesty to his raging thoughts.

The campfire glows so softly for something so sharp and vicious, but tonight is the last night before the war. The declaration is still tucked away in his pocket, away from the everlasting laughs and forced smiles. Yes, tonight they shouldn't worry. 

Even though Dream could strike right now, Snapap could break their walls down or George could be sharping their beheading axe. He looks up, afraid even thinking about it would manifest in his eyes.

Tommy roars from some stupid joke that Eret said, Tubbo laughing at his side as Fundy only groans in desperation. Wilbur breathes through his nose, relaxing his tense muscles. Yeah, just for tonight. Just for this moment.

  
_When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart_   
_And I thought I was so smart_

Fundy is hurt. He is hurt because he thought himself clever and he got hurt.

He blinks once and—

It's a Wednesday morning, and in the little piece of land with a bloodstream made from tall redwoods, and paths that are never empty, always in a hurry, to move, _c'mon the sun is still young!_

He takes his time, slow, and careful to breathe everything in. To expand his lungs and exhale, to take in the morning air and the scent of the room when he walks in. And Wilbur just cracks the window open, just enough for the morning sun to stream in. 

The sun hits his hair as he opens it, a photographer's dream, and he's trying to immortalize this moment. 

He breathes in the sight, soaking in the way the hair changes color to the many coopers and richly golden, and _did Wilbur_ _really have to wake him up like this? No. But he would do it every day if given the chance._

And as Wilbur witness Fundy trying to wake up, his eyes lopsided and half hodded from sleep, trying to scan the room with a half-conscious. He smiles softly, stepping closer to his side, and planting a soft kiss on his hairline, and his nose is flooded by the smell of soap and lavender. Wilbur smiles a little wider, his son is still too old to be woken up like this, but his son will always remain the cute baby for him.

He whispers to his hair, _time to wake up champ_ , and Fundy sighs in content, and he slowly gets up without disturbing his heart. He tucks the sheets around him just a little tighter, wishing for this moment to span till the end of the cosmos.

Fundy has been having trouble eating, sudden mood swings, and complaining about code and enchantments. Wilbur wishes he could just stay a little younger, for just a bit more. 

He blinks again and—

"C'mon champ, you gotta wake up now." He whispers into his side, rocks sharply edging on his knees as he knelt. He knows war, he knew that this was an inventable event bound to happen. He just didn't think that he would have to bury a son so early into it. 

He thinks of digging dirt with his hand, white lilies at the bottom of a cold stone for a cold body, and he can't stop the wheezing or the tightness in his chest. 

He was found by Tubbo, just a few moments later, running breathlessly with a healing potion in his inventory. Fundy was never allowed to patrol alone afterward.

_You will come of age with our young nation_   
_We'll bleed and fight for you, we'll make it right for you_

They won. By Notch, they won!

Wilbur looks down at his chipped nails, dirt, and grime underneath. Muscles are being dragged down from sheer exhaustion triggered by his relief. (The letter of surrender is tucked in his pocket, heavy and cold.) He cannot believe how the world is turned upside down.

_They won. They won. They won._

The endless stream of the repeated mantra drums his ears in fluid movement as his lungs. Unbelievable. Maybe now, the bloated bodies of his fellow patriots will stop haunting his dreams and waking hours.

He took a moment, looking up at Fundy (that's a change ain't it? ) and grinned such a bright smile, he wonders how any day could be dark. 

Tommy and Tubbo are surrounding him, Fundy is in arm's reach, and his sheer joy, he brought them in a group hug. Tommy leaned into his side as if to get closer or away from Tubbo. But Wilbur pretends he doesn't feel his tremor or his wet eyes.

He shakes and shouts, the energy capturing his fists and he sings for the first time in a long time.

  
_If we lay a strong enough foundation_   
_We'll pass it on to you, we'll give the world to you_

Nervously he licked his lips, dried copper stung his tongue. Tommy is fidgeting beside him, the nerves are getting to him. He wants to reach out, put a palm in his shoulder, and be the good, kind leader that says _we'll be alright._

The sun sinking into his skin, and the wind bringing fresh air, _inhale, exhale_. It cleared his mind a little. Not his aching joints though. He makes the mistake of glancing at Tommy. Sunlight captured his hair like it was playing with fine gold. His chest bursting with earnest and that _something_ , and Wilbur can feel acid burning in the bottom of his throat.

A wild, errant bubble of emotions pops in his chest, and he looks away.

His eyes, those traitors, wonder directly into Fundy's. He wants to shout, rip his hair out in desperation, but he can't stop the bubble of pride in his chest. Wilbur knows Fundy, and he knows that he'll be a great leader one day. It takes a lot of spines to openly run against your own father in front of his face, and he can't stop a small smile forming on his face.

Fundy looks away. 

A tap on his shoulder and he wants to grind Quackity's face on the ground he stands on. Instead, he rolls his eyes in understanding, the papers in his slick hands don't tremble when he stands at the podium. 

Tommy is still trying to meet his eye, the open question on his eyes, _why are you so nervous?_ _Aren't you happy?_

And when he _finally_ looks into Tommy's eyes. ( _because he cannot bear to look into those bright eyes, young and passionate_ ) He only knows that despair in his young eyes, he walks holding hands with it in war. And he knows the fear and shock etched into his face too well, his late nights of desperation walking when he was a general in a revolution.

He doesn't look at Fundy as he steps down.

  
_And you'll blow us all away_   
_Someday, someday_   
_Yeah, you'll blow us all away_   
_Someday, someday_

Spots teased his vision, growing in size when he was abruptly released and found himself nose-down on the ground once more.

_Listen to me Tommy, listen! You must listen!_

And here he thought himself sagacious enough to avoid an outright confrontation, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

_Tommy, you know you'll be a great leader, right?_

Whispers of false promises haunted his ears, rocking motion as the world with muted colors buzzed into view. Oh, he was in some cell. Wonderful.

_One day, you_ _are going to be just what they need_

"Ah, shit," He remembers now. He was careless, a simple mistake anyone could see and smell from a meter away. Granted, most weren't dehydrated or living off potatoes. A simple, tiny, _stupid_ mistake.

Wilbur doesn't really want to recall the sharp expression of Techno as they realize they were too late, or the wide eyes of Tubbo as he saw him in the feet of Schlatt, bound and helpless.

He never saw Fundy. He's glad of that, at least his son never saw him like that. Yet he also knows no one knows that path like Fundy, the only path made by him and— 

( he doesn't want to recall Tommy's shocked and betrayed expression as he urges him to run and run and _run and don't look back!)_

He sighs, taking in the cobblestone floor and ceiling, with moss growing in the cracks and edges. He wants to smile, to think of a positive of how even in the darkest hours, there is life. That is would be wonderful material when he is writing his autobiography in his old age.

He raises his finger to brush against it, only to stop short as an odd sensation passed over him, sending a chill down his spine. This is not right. ( _before exploding into searing pain. It raced through his system like molten fire, filling his entire being and stealing his breath_ ) 

His legs wobbled under him as he stood uneven on the dark cell. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the grime and moss surrounding him.

It didn't feel wrong so much as just . . . not right

_when you smile I am undone_   
_My son_   
_Look at my son_

A prodigal son, teeth on edge and letters in his fingers, trembles in the cold. He begs anyone out there that it failed. That he had not just committed a grave sin. A cold voice answered back. 

_Great job._

_/resetworldspawn__WilburSoot_

_Pride is not the word I'm looking for_

_There is so much more inside me now_   
_Oh, you outshine the morning sun_   
_My son_

He only knew of two possibilities that would emerge from this. He will not fool himself to think otherwise. He wasn't cut out to be a true leader, just some great general that history writes about. Just another lonely musician with big dreams bursting through the seams.

A hollow feeling echoed, _Tommy, run!_ and he's stuck on how the kid's eyes widen and his shoulders shook. Wilbur hopes that he is alright. Techno will look after him, he's still a kid, after all, he'll be alright. He hopes. All he has is hope. (Oh how he despises hope, seriously hates it—)

There's a slight breeze, the moonlight pooling at the bottom of his feet. Someone is unlocking his cell, maybe it's Schlatt coming to gloat again. He looks up and he can see the shadows of a face. ( i know you— ) 

He smiles.

Wilbur reaches out. ( He is still young, his pride and joy— ) 

"Oh champ, let me take a good look at you." He ignores the flinch, the wet gasp of disbelief, and lets his hand hovering in the air between them, his rough voice filling the role of comfort.

A moment of hesitation.

Fundy took a silent step forward, and Wilbur found bones stood out, his skin warm and a thin layer of sweat coating his fingertips.

A sharp inhale.

"Well, look at you! You've grown so tall!" Wilbur laughs in relief, he looks mad, a bolt of knowledge hits him. With his wild mess of hair, blood cakes underneath his fingernails, and all he's worried about is how tall is his son. He wonders if he's eating well.

Fundy ( _When did this happen? Kid, what the hell happen? A healthy image of him, god, **I did this**_ ) bows down, almost collapses if it wasn't for the support of cold cobblestone walls at his side.

He pulls himself as high as the metal chains would allow and he can feel his chest contract. He has seen those eyes as he screamed and cried his name, just a few days earlier. Haunted eyes spill tears as his face is twisting with grief, thus causing Wilbur's breathing to hitch. His face is weathered too, small scars mattered his face, sharp edges, and dark shadows.

Smile.

"Aw, kid! Just smile! This is a happy moment! C'mon, where's your smile?" He feels so, _tired_. But he pushes his cheeks and makes a perfect smile.

(Just smile, champ! _Wilbur pushed his puffed cheeks in a last-ditch effort to make his day just a little lighter. His laugh never felt so rewarding_ )

  
_When you smile, I fall apart_   
_And I thought I was so smart_   
_My father wasn't around (my father wasn't around)_

"Hey, Fundy? You make me so damn proud. I am so grateful I got to meet you, squirt."

"...."

"Thank you. For believing in me and Tommy and Tubbo, hell even in Eret. I love you. I don't say that enough." 

"..."

"I wish things turned out differently, maybe in another place and time, we could've done something different." 

"...." 

"But want to know a secret? I don't regret anything."

A sharp, wet inhale.

". . . I'm so sorry."

"Oh kid, I know."

_I swear that_   
_I'll be around for you (I'll be around for you)_

When Wilbur opens his eyes again, it becomes clear that the adrenaline coursing through his system had done wonders for burning out any lingering weariness or aching. It did not, however, do much for the stabbing pain behind his eyes.

He let his hand drop back to his side, trying to push the headache aside. In contrast, it's daylight. The small one block window crops the warm morning sun painting the sky in its warm hues. He wants to scream, a part of his still running circles on the betrayal of his own blood, and another is grieving and yelling. It's confusing.

That's when they come into his cell. 

Purpled doesn't even look troubled by his current state. Wilbur knows that being in a constant state of running and living in the woods haven't done him any favors in the hygiene department. 

Quickly, however, grimaces and looks troubled, whether that be shame or discomfort. After all, he was still Wilbur Soot, the man with a golden tongue and shoulders of a leader. Who was chained and battered in a dark cobblestone cell, a funny imagine a year ago?

When they hauled him to his feet, the world tilted and spun unsteadily around him, threatening to spin him out its axis. His feet steady under him, he felt their presence on both his sides. So he was being escorted then.

As the sun hit him, there was a strange sense of peace that carried him. Despite the wariness dragging his muscles and the heavy brooding feeling in his chest, there was relentless energy that was released once his eyes adjusted to the light.

He took a moment before cracking his eyes open. His chest tightened and his eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries as the tall redwood trees cast shadows over the hills and the familiar paths waived throughout. Although Wilbur will never admit it, seeing a little slice of heaven was enough to fool him for a second. That everything was like before, in the early days of the war.

But that everlasting joy was washed away by a cold sweep of the land. People were gathered, in the same plaza as they were chased out like dogs. He ignores the wet gasps and the heated, focused stares.

The place is stacked, and the podium is—

Oh.

Everyone is here to see his public execution.

_I'll do whatever it takes_

_I'll make a million mistakes_

He attempted to catch his breath, forcing what little air he could pass the pressure building against his throat. He tries not to think of his son, a small bundle of joy, babbling about the latest enchantment he read. Would he grow to an adult? Have a family? (Try is the key-word here.)

There were whispers, words, and shouts of anger all dancing at the edge of his hearing, just barely out of reach.

_Think_. Schlatt stepped forward, a smile teasing menacing as he started his speech. _Think_. They're too many guards, all covering vital escape routes. _Think! Aren't you clever?!_

He blinks once, and there; just hidden behind the treetops of redwoods was a small flash of color. A blink and the color is gone again. Wilbur sighs in relief, bringing his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide his face. Schlatt is too entrailed in his speech to notice. 

Technoblade should get him out. But next to the color was a rustle and he strained his eyes to catch another small color flash. _No._ He wouldn't. He straightens his spine and looks ahead, as an explosion of claps rocked him off his thoughts. He looks down, the people are restless and fidgety. ( _He wants to scream raw, demand why why why_ —)

Instead, Wilbur ignores Schlatt's shatter and the pointed threats of his guards. He won't give in, staying quiet at the questions thrown at him. He can spot Schlatt's eye twitch. 

He pays him no heed though, focusing on the horizon. The hills imprint in his mind and Wilbur is trying to immortalize the cloud's patterns and the breeze in his hair, the almost lazy sway of the trees in the hills. He doesn't want to think of the people below (why would they betray him) or the sharp axes of his escorts.

Schlatt keeps talking, more threats, yet Wilbur's mouth refused to open. It felt like there was sand in his mouth and if he opened it, nothing but a jumbled mess would fall out. A flash of color caught his vision, so much closer than before. At this point, Wilbur knows that Schlatt _knows_ about the wanted pair on his land. He has the power to call them out, to simply point and let his bloodhounds hunt them down. 

_He's making a point then_. Wilbur clenches his jaw. A sudden thunder of horrible realization struck him mid-thought. He's going to die here. He gulps down the ball of steel in his throat. There are too many people, all trained well and geared up. Although Techno would have no problem, he has a problem child following him. It would take too long to reach him with whatever tools they have on themselves. Too outmanned, unprepared, and too far away. 

(The exact reason he even made the trip that leads to all of this in the first place.)

Wilbur draws empty. A tragedy he always fell back to _Use your words_ can't be applied here. He'll only be falling into Shlatt's hands.

Wilbur clenches his hands, feeling the restraints on his wrists before relaxing. 

He cranked his neck, just enough to see into Techno's eyes. They are far away but they no longer make the effort to hide. Schlatt only continues, as if their presence placed a fervor in his words.

Technoblade is no fool. He's closer now, enough to see his eyes. Wilbur frantically tries to meet his eyes, desperate for him to catch his wordless plea.

Technoblade knew this, and in a desperate last feat, he begged with his eyes as they battled with their backs turned to each other one last time. 

A halted breath.

And Technoblade nods in confirmation, almost defeated, that's when Wilbur _finally_ looks into Tommy's eyes. Young, alive, scared. ( _because he cannot bear to look into those bright eyes, young and passionate_ ) He knows those eyes ( _not her again with salmon-red hair and blue river eyes, her son with hate on his eyes,_ he can see it—)

Techno hung his head in understanding. 

A building pressure unraveled in his chest, it made him forget the reality that he was going to die. At least his blood will saturate the soil he was chased him. (He is home.)

They are chanting something. No fundy is. His voice was laced with worry, yet there was no stutter or faltering in his speech. Fluid and constant, Wilbur almost smiles. There's nameless dread forming though, settling like dust in his chest. The strange feeling from before returned.

"—Destroying his world spawn!" 

Oh.

Fundy was always smart like that. 

_I'll make the world safe and sound for you_   
_Will come of age with our young nation_   
_We'll bleed and fight for you, we'll make it right for you_

Don't panic. Breathe.

_(Ignore the panicked crowd, faceless in the face of tyranny and cowards. Traitors, why do they weep?!—_ )

He will die, but so will the fledgling kid who hasn't had even _had_ a chance yet. He and Techno will be hunted down. And while he knows Techno will alright, he thinks of Tommy: his intestines will be smeared through broken concrete, and his skull popped. All scenarios are too familiar, like rewatching a series finale, and suddenly he _has smoke filling his lungs, the familiar smell, and the taste, the coppery metallic taint of blood and the rotting decay of death were common like the flies on corpses—_

He blinks. The pictures lingered like a macabre perfume, even more so in the past year, since he took up the title of president. Tommy. His right-hand man doesn't deserve what he's about to do. 

Take a deep breath.

_If we lay a strong enough foundation_   
_We'll pass it on to you, we'll give the world to you_

His chest tightens and his eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with his chains or his wounds as Tommy and Techno filled his vision. A choked sob clogs his throat, unwilling to escape. _This was never supposed to happen_. He wasn't even supposed to be here, neither him nor Tommy. They were supposed to stay behind where it was _safe_.

( where was it safe? Was it ever? )

But they wouldn't listen; they never listen. 

( _his chest hurts whenever he thinks of her son. Her baby. He can still feel his kicks in her belly as she laughs_ _— )_

If he could finish this, then maybe— _just maybe_ — his death and everyone else's wouldn't be in vain. 

His people are down there, wondering the same thing. _If he can do that to Wilbur Soot, then what could happen to us?_

He will not allow him to do this, to divide and conquer through fear. He clenched his jaw and tore his gaze away from the sight. He took a shallow breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He had to concentrate, finish what they came here to do. 

And he shouts—

"My fellow patriots, lend me your ears!"

Even Schlatt startled, clearly believing he would go down silent and still. The thought was enough to burn his tongue as he continued.

"My presence today proves that we have been aroused to the point of action. We cannot be patient, we want our freedom, and we want it now! We cannot depend on anyone but ourselves! Remember that History is a weapon and the revolution is at hand **.**

And if I die young, know the truth is forever _!"_

_Yeah, easier said than done._ Wilbur forced himself to think of the wood underneath him, of the words clawing at his throat and searching for a way out. The sudden awareness of his body motion, aware that people will draw something from his words and how he is so _cold._

"This is no time for mourning. For my own part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation?"

Wilbur doesn't look down below him. He can see the after the image of what his mind threw together though— Niki softly crying but never faltering as she gazes upwards, or Tubbo fidgeting at the end corners of his shirt as a habit.

He tries not to weep.

"I've been counted out, left for dead. On the run, wanted with a bounty on my head. And when all is done, bury my face down!

Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with these warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves! These are the implements of war and subjugation— the last arguments to which dictators resort. I ask you all, what means this martial array if its purpose is not to force us to submission? Can anyone assign any other possible motives for it?"

When Wilbur was a younger man, more reckless than Tommy, he thought himself clever. The world worked on words and intent, so he prided himself as a man of words. Years later, he would fight with words, tamer, and more cautious, but that recklessness transfer itself into verbs and adjectives with the intent behind them. It was those same words that caused his downfall. 

"I don't recognize this man as my President! Don't listen to them, you are not free! 

If we wish to be free— if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending— if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I repeat it, we must fight! An appeal to arms and the God of Hosts is all that is left us!

They wanna block us from the truth because we're stronger when together!"

( _Traitors, all of 'em. None worthy of salvation, hypocrites, rats, traitors, traitors, traitors, traitors)_

"The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is your wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty Notch! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!"

But even with traitors on his shores, god help him, he was willing to dive into madness for them.

  
_And you'll blow us all away_

"I'm leaving the rest to you." He whispers to the wind, letting it take the trembling statement and to go somewhere far away with it. Maybe that's what they should've done instead.

"Champ, I'm counting on you." A fist of courage to one to another, a brand of acknowledgment from the past to the future. Fundy doesn't falter. And Wilbur pretends his hands aren't shaken.

And in the epicenter of this, was Shlatt. He stood atop of rubble of the country's foundation, eyes sharp and menacing, waiting for the departed breath. He smiles.

"Thank you for such a wonderful comedy." 

And then theres a click. 

For a moment everything was still, Fundy's voice filling his ears and washing over him.

It started as a murmur, like a distant hum at the back of his mind. Wilbur shook his head, trying to rid himself of the sound, but it only grew louder, rolling closer like thunder.

Then the fire hit him.

Like a liquid inferno, it seared through him with a vengeance, slamming into his cells, racing along his veins, and igniting his nerves. It ricocheted between his head and chest before shattering outwards, tearing through him.

Riding on the heels of the fire were noises so loud he strained against the ropes, desperate to block it out. Cries and whispers screamed across his ears like nails dragged across a chalkboard. Images followed at a dizzying pace, searing through his mind, obliterating everything.

_"Darling, about do you think about having kids?—"_

_"Dirty crime boy!"_

_"Do I aim for the skies wil?"_

_"—SUCK IT GREEN BOOOOOOOOY!."_

Pressure built inside of him until he was sure his body would snap in half from the force alone. Things he never wanted to remember, never wanted to forget—they surged forward in tangled, confused clumps, overlapping each other, demanding attention.

" _Why not hold an election?"_

" _We are outmanned, outgunned _—__

" _Wilbur_ , _if we're going to do this—"_

_"Kids? No, not really. I'm not the most fatherly type of guy."_

" _Did you look for me, Tommy?"_

"— _then we do it together, just as we always have."_

He couldn't breathe.

He fought to pull air through the lungs that had been beaten flat by the pounding of his own heart. He felt himself slip toward the edge of a dark cliff, the ground crumbling beneath his feet as his own personal Hell opened up before him. He tried to pull away from the noise, the pain, but it surrounded him, consumed him, came from inside him.

" _Oh, his name is going to be—"_

" _Tommy what did you do?"_

_"Who licks trees!? That is disgusting."_

" _Fundy_ , _it's okay. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you."_

" _I couldn't let him die, Phil. He's my brother."_

He felt something splinter deep inside his chest, something that went deeper than blood and bone. He was being ripped into tiny pieces, each piece buckling and turning to ash under the intense pressure.

"' _Mommy? Huh_ _— she, she went down the stream. Don't worry about it Champ."_

_"For the union! For the revolution!"_

" _Shut your face! Don't force me to break your toys!"_

" _Tommy, we will be alright."_

" _No matter which way you turn, you keep ending up here."_

" _We can't trust him, he's American!"_

" _What shall we call this place?"_

A copper tang filled his mouth, coated his tongue, causing him to gag in between the impossibly screams echoing in his head.

" _I'm willing to let slide, but Fundy listen to me. This is a war."_

" _How about—"_

" _Don't throw away your shot."_

"—L'manburg? _"_

The colors swirled, merged, and faded into a single dark blur, an encroaching sense of _nothing_. It wrapped it's bony arms around him, his senses slowly fading one at a time until all he could feel was the faint thumping of his own heartbeat. Each thump quieter, calmer than the last as if going to sleep.

Protecting his son and brothers _— his family_ had always been his job, no one had to ask him, it'd just always been his responsibility. He had one job and if dying here, meant Tommy would live, that he and Fundy avoid all the pain they suffered during the war . . .

He knew now that he did the right thing.

Wilbur let his eyes slip shut as he pushed out one last shaky breath before everything went quiet. The world dissolves in a supernova of blinding colors and warped distorted noises

_Ain't that a bitch?_

  
_Someday, someday_   
_Yeah, you'll blow us all away_   
_Someday, someday_

**Author's Note:**

> well some parts of Wilbur speech are copy and pasted. I just got inspiration from those. Anyway, I'm so fucking late to everything Jesus christ. I began writing this when they technoblade first joined them. Im so late.
> 
> So. uh. I did this because i was bored of other stuff but i like writing. Sorry if its a little messy. 
> 
> References:  
> John Lewis wrote to be delivered at the Lincoln Memorial on August 28, 1963.  
> On March 23, 1775, Henry delivered this speech imploring the delegates to vote in favor.


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